Heaven Forbid
by admiralpompousbutt
Summary: AU Post-Swan Song. One year after the apocalypse has been averted, Dean's happy life with Lisa and Ben is interrupted by a mysterious being stalking his dreams. And what about Sam? Our reaction to the unsatisfactory beginning of Season 6. No pairings. OC.
1. Prologue

No copyright infringement intended. Nothing recognizable belongs to us.

It was unnaturally quiet. The colors of the gray sky and the yellowing grass faded to inky black as Dean sat slumped against the door of his car. His brother was gone. His brother was as good as dead. A crushing weight pressed on his chest. He was suffocating. He couldn't breathe. A feeling like lightning passed through him and his eyes shot open. He looked up. The angel was there, fully restored to his vessel. With a touch, he was healed, but his heart remained broken.

He stood up, bones and skin unbroken. Yet with this new vitality, he felt only more burdened. He looked to the black car beside him. It sat on a road to no one knows where, almost beckoning him to take to the endless asphalt that has been his home for longer than he cared to admit.

He slid in through the driver's side door, feeling utterly alone. He looked to the vacant seat to his right. The lack of balance, the asymmetry of the situation was tangible. Dean only set his jaw and pressed his foot to the gas. He traveled down the road, straight and unpromising. His eyes transfixed on the daunting journey ahead, he only half noticed the people emerging from nowhere, lining the path of his trek like haunted sentries. Some faces he recognized, others he did not.

Castiel, comfortingly expressionless. Bobby, confined to his wheelchair, but still indomitable. Ellen and Jo, Jessica, John and Mary, and countless others he knew he could not bear to see again. A face along the line grabbed his attention. Sam? He turned and looked over his shoulder, desperately searching the line of faces for his brother.

"I'm here, Dean. I am coming."

An alien voice whispered in his head. Sam, or who he thought was Sam, was gone. He turned his attention away from the line of faces, knowing Sam wouldn't be there.

For a split second he saw a figure standing directly in his path, unmoving in the middle of the road, before he slammed on the brakes, throwing him through the glass.

The incessant buzz of the alarm pulled Dean from this nightmare. Slowly, his eyes pulled into focus and his gaze fell upon the ceiling fan spinning above his bed. _Their_ bed.

"Good morning, Dean," Lisa said, her voice still groggy with sleep. He shifted his gaze and saw Lisa, her dark hair mussed from sleep, a pleasant smile on her face.

"Good morning," he replied, his heart still pounding in his ribcage. He tried to quietly steady his breathing.

She propped herself up on her elbows, concern furrowing her brow.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean only nodded. She knew better.

Lisa grabbed his hand, pressing a kiss to the rough skin.

"You need to talk?"

Her unending concern for him was foreign, but utterly welcome. He shook his head, squeezing her hand in his.

"Okay," she replied, nodding understandingly. She pulled herself from their bed, stretching as she walked to the bathroom.

Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes. Every night, every night there were nightmares. Every night, his subconscious taunted him with empty promises of glimpses of his brother.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand. 7:30.

He had to go to work.


	2. Chapter 1

_We don't own any characters, other than those we create. L&M._

No longer did work involve salt rounds and shotguns and holy water. In the bed of his truck, he carried hammers and drills and gloves and helmets. He dropped Ben off at school on his way to work and ate dinner when he came home. He watched television and played golf and slept in the same bed every night. Life, for Dean some might say, had become boring. For him, life had become safe and ordinary.

He was happy. Except when he fell asleep.

In sleep, his dreams were a constant reminder of the life that he had left behind, and ultimately of the brother he had left behind. His dreams tortured him with guilt. They taunted him. But most of all, his dreams left him doubting the choice he made, the promise to his brother to make no attempt to save him.

As of late, his dreams left him feeling threatened. It was as if a ghost stalked through his psyche, only giving teasing glimpses of itself, taunting him. He could hear it speak to him, a voice whispering in his ear, though coming from no discernable mouth.

This intrusion had kept him on his guard. He could hardly say that it didn't worry him, the idea of some creature picking through his memories and thoughts while he slept. Its menacing words "I am coming for you" and "I will not be stopped" lingered his mind long after the nightmare ended and the day began. He wanted to know what those words meant; he wanted to be prepared.

That same night, after Ben had gone to bed and he had kissed Lisa goodnight, Dean sat up in bed and mentally prepared himself for whatever his subconscious had to throw at him. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he gave himself one of those pep-talks he used to recite before a job, a hunt. Whatever he saw, whoever he saw, he wouldn't lose his nerve.

Sliding down into his sheets, nestling his head into his pillow, Dean closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

The sun shone in a cloudless sky. Dean stood on the sidewalk, facing a familiar house. He knew where he was, but he didn't want to admit it to himself. He wanted to turn around and walk away, but his feet were planted on the cement. It was as if the house was challenging him, daring him to come inside.

But he swore he wouldn't.

Suddenly, the front door opened, seemingly of its own volition. Dean could feel his heart pound, the sound echoing in his ears. He stared at the open door. Everything went still. He couldn't even feel a breeze.

The house was quiet. Nothing else moved. Nothing, until, and Dean couldn't even be sure, he saw a shift in the shadows through the open door.

Then, the voice, clearer, a woman's voice, spoke.

"Dean Winchester, I am here. I will not be stopped. I am coming for you."

A figure walked past the door. Its face was obscured by shadow, coming into view for no more than a second. Dean took a step forward.

Again, the voice.

"I am here, Dean. For you."

Dean tore into the house. His eyes darted from side to side as he frantically searched the rooms of his old house in Laurence. Everything was the way he remembered. The old furniture and family pictures sat in the rooms and hung on the walls. But there was no one.

"Where are you?" he shouted into the empty house, "Where are you?"

He heard a door slam upstairs. He darted up the stairs, blood pumping through his veins, the sound rushing in his ears. He stood in the hallway, circling around, his eyes searching for any hint of movement, any sign of a threat.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

The voice spoke again. If Dean didn't know any better, the voice seemed to plead with him.

"I am here, Dean. I've always been here."

"Then show yourself! You can't be afraid of me!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a door down the hall open, only just. The door to Sam's old nursery. A ray of light shone as a line of yellow on the floor. He watched it intently, waiting for the glimpse of a shadow of whatever waited for him inside. With careful steps, Dean walked towards the door. He put his ear to the crack and held his breath. He heard nothing. He put his hand on the door.

"Dean, I am here!" the voice called out to him.

Dean charged through the door.

His eyes flew open. He was back in his bed. It was still night, the moon shone in from the window, casting a blue shadow across the bed. Dean clenched his fists in frustration, stifling the irritated growl gathering in his throat.

That was enough.

Dean pulled himself from bed, being careful not to wake Lisa as she slept peacefully beside him. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen phone. Not even bothering to turn on any lights, Dean stood in the darkness.

He held the receiver in his hands for a few hesitant moments, unsure of whether or not he should make this call. The thought of one more dream urged him to press the green, glowing TALK button and dial the number ingrained in his mind.

He held the receiver up to his ear. The time had never occurred to him, to make call at such an hour, but he knew there would be answer anyway.

Sure enough, after a few rings, Dean heard a click and then that familiar, gruff voice.

"Hello?"

Dean couldn't speak for a few moments. It had been nearly a year.

"Hey, Bobby."

The voice on the other end of the line was silent for a few moments, "Dean? Dean, is that you?"

"Sorry to call so late."

"You think I care, boy. How are you? Dammit, son. You gotta wait a year to call me?"

"I know, Bobby. I am sorry. It's been . . . It's been different."

"You can apologize later. What's going on, Dean?" Bobby's voice was heavy with concern.

"Bobby, I think . . . I think something is after me."

Bobby went quiet.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Bobby. I don't know what it is."

"I think you best come here, son."

Dean placed the receiver back on its perch. He was going back. Not just to Bobby's, but to that whole life. He hadn't even thought about hunting anything for months, and now, just like that, he was thrust back into the game with his own safety at stake, no less. This wasn't what he wanted. But since when did Dean ever get what he wanted.

He trudged up the stairs, already feeling utterly defeated. Even if he destroyed whatever was preying on him, he knew it had already won. It was able to pull him away from the life he was making with Lisa and Ben, and pull him back down into the life of death and demons that he grown up with.

He passed Ben's door on his way back to his room. The door was slightly ajar. Peering in, he saw Ben's sleeping form, peaceful and content. Dean sighed and suddenly felt very much like his own father, leaving without reason, without a good-bye.

He walked into his room where Lisa sat up in bed, looking at Dean with that same concern.

"Dean?"

Dean couldn't even find the words.

"You have to leave."

It wasn't a question, and it killed him to know that she understood. No one should have to understand something like that.

"Lisa, I am sorry," he replied helplessly.

She wasn't angry, or if she was, it wasn't with him. She only looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.

"I wish you would tell me, Dean," she said pleadingly.

"I would, Lisa. Believe me, I would. But this time . . . this time, I don't know what it is."

"And that's why you have to leave."

"I'm going to Bobby's."

Lisa pulled herself from under the covers and walked to Dean, who still stood with guilt weighing on his shoulders. She took his hands in hers and held onto them, almost clinging to him, begging him to stay, but knowing he couldn't.

"You've been there for us, Dean, always."

Dean moved to protest, but she cut him off, not even letting him begin.

"No, Dean, you have. And if going to Bobby's now means that you can be there for us tomorrow, I guess that is just a sacrifice that Ben and I are going to have to make."

Dean didn't say anything. The idea of anyone sacrificing anything for him, especially Lisa and Ben who had already sacrificed and given so much was something to which Dean could never truly reconcile himself.

Dean swallowed a sigh, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself. She wrapped her arms around him and he felt her icy fingertips on his back, the cold permeating through his shirt, shocking him back to reality.

"C'mon," she said softly, "Let's get you ready."

At this point, Dean felt it was almost impossible for him to leave. For the first time in a long time, he felt the burden of being protector. He'd nearly forgotten how it felt, so suffocating and stressful.

After all that happened, saving people almost wasn't worth the risk. There was always too much at stake. But this was for his family. His family. He repeated that to himself. The mantra that he had lived by for nearly thirty years: Protect your family or die trying.

With a heavy nod of his head, he moved to get dressed. Hardly even caring, he pulled on a pair of worn jeans over his boxers, flung on a shirt that he grabbed off the floor of the closet. He grabbed the keys to the truck off the dresser and headed downstairs. As he descended, the aroma of fresh coffee brewing wafted through the house. No one had ever made Dean coffee before a hunt. No one had ever made him anything, except maybe nervous.

He made his way down to the kitchen where he saw Lisa, sitting down with an open thermos standing on the table by her elbow. Her hand was clenched in a fist, covering her mouth. Her eyes were lowered and her breathing was unsteady, despite her best efforts to hide it. It tore Dean up inside, knowing he was the one to cause her such unease.

"Hey," he said quietly. She lifted her eyes to look at him.

He sat down across from her at the table, unsure of what to say. It was silent for a few moments. Dean couldn't bear it. He inhaled and blurted out without thinking, "I'm coming back, you know."

Lisa only blinked.

"I know," she said, as if trying to convince not only Dean, but herself. Dean reached over and grabbed her hand. He felt his body heat escape into her frigid fingertips, a sensation that he still couldn't get used to. He rubbed his thumb tenderly against her skin. It seemed to soothe them both, if only for the moment.

"I'll be ok. So will you and Ben. I promise." She nodded. She rose from her seat, her hand drifting away from Dean's, and went to the coffeepot. She carried it to the table and poured the hot brew into the thermos. Dean watched with loving fascination as she spun in the lid on, sealing the heat inside and placed the small cap on top. Dean stood and walked the short distance between them. As Lisa handed it to him, he met her lips with a small kiss. It was a good-bye. For now.

He exited the house. The streets were dead. He was used to late night drives. Walking toward his truck on the street, he stopped in his tracks. He looked at the rickety, old truck parked on the street. It would never make the trip to South Dakota. Not in the time he needed it to. He thought for a moment and looked behind him at the closed garage door.

He entered through the side door. He flipped the switch and the light flickered to life. A cloth covered mass stood among the ladders and tool boxes and half empty cans of paint.

He ripped off the cloth. There she was, brilliant and commanding, as though not a day had gone by.

The Impala. Dean's first love.

He pulled the garage door open, moonlight flooded the garage, swathing the jet black paint of the Impala in blue light.

He pulled the handle and the door swung open. The leather upholstery, the wide steering wheel, the familiar knobs and buttons, everything about this car, his old friend, beckoned to him. He slid into the driver seat, pulling the ring of keys of out of his pocket. He flipped through the small pieces of metal until he came across the one that would start up his old car and his old life.

He held it between his index finger and thumb. He placed the key in the ignition and with a flick of his wrist and the engine rumbled to life.

He pulled out of the garage and took to the road.

He drove in silence for several hours, his box of tapes left untouched. This trip in his beloved car was laden with unwanted and dangerous thoughts. Of the family he was leaving behind. Of his destination and all that it implied. Of how alone he was at that moment, nothing but his memories and trunk of ammunition to keep him company.


	3. Chapter 2

He drove all night and well into the morning.

As the sun reached its peak in the sky, Dean pulled into the Singer Scrap Yard. Metal skeletons in imperious stacks encircled the old house.

Dean let the engine idle as he prepared himself for this reunion. It wasn't that he wasn't happy to see Bobby, but rather what had caused this meeting that preyed on his sense of calm.

He pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car. He marched up the creaking wood steps and knocked on the peeling paint of the front door. He couldn't remember the last he had knocked to get into Bobby's house.

It didn't take long before Dean heard the deliberate, heavy footfalls of Bobby Singer as he made his way to answer the door.

The door swung open with a groan. Bobby, with his relaxed attire and perpetual scruff, stood with a scowl on his face, a shotgun clenched his fist.

At first sight of Dean, Bobby's expression softened.

Dean eyed the gun skeptically, "Well, you were always good at warm welcomes."

Bobby abandoned the gun and pulled Dean into a suffocating embrace.

"Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm happy to see you, too, Bobby," he said, recalling his characteristic sarcasm.

"Get in here," Bobby released Dean from his embrace, pulling him into the house.

"How've you been, boy?" Bobby asked, clapping Dean on the shoulder, "Can I get you anythin'? A beer?"

"Isn't it a little early for beer?"

Bobby gave him a funny look, "Like that's ever stopped you before."

Dean shrugged, "I'll have a beer, then."

Bobby went to the fridge and pulled a cold beer from inside. He popped the top off and handed it to Dean.

"You're a regular Martha Stewart, Bobby," Dean said with a smile.

"Shut up," he countered, "Can't I be happy to see you?"

Dean took a swig of his beer and sighed.

"I wish I could say I was happy to see you, too, Bobby."

"What's the matter, son?" Bobby said, adopting a more serious tone, as he took a seat behind his desk.

"I don't know. Everything was fine. Everything is fine, except . . ." Dean paused, not sure how to continue.

"Except what? You said on the phone somethin' about a . . . a creature being after you."

"That's just it, Bobby. I don't know. Maybe I'm rusty, but I've never seen anything like this before," Dean explained helplessly.

"What's goin' on?"

"I keep having dreams, Bobby. These dreams where . . . ," he stopped again.

"Where what?"

"I think I see I Sam, Bobby."

Bobby's eyes were no longer looking at Dean. Their focus fell behind him. Dean followed the path of his gaze and almost fell out of his chair for what he saw.

"Hey, Dean."

"Sam?"

Dean turned back to Bobby, unable to wipe the blatantly stunned expression off his face.

"Am I dreaming again?" Dean asked helplessly.

"No, son."

Sam took a step forward from his place in the doorframe and Dean shot out of his chair. He desperately wished he had a gun on him at that moment.

"You are not my brother," Dean spat out, unwilling to believe what was he saw standing before him.

"Dean, listen," Sam tried to reason with Dean, but his efforts were fruitless.

"This is a dream," Dean responded, his eyes looking around desperately, for a way out of this nightmare, "I never woke up. None of this is real."

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not dreamin', son," Bobby said, doing his best to calm Dean.

"This is all real," he assured him, then looked over to Sam, "He's real."

"Then he's a walking corpse," Dean rambled, gazing at his brother in disgusted incredulity, "Or, or a demon, or-."

He stopped in midsentence.

"What are you doing?"

Sam had picked up a knife, the silver blade glittering in the sun that shone through the window.

"Anything I have to," Sam rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, "To prove to you that I am your brother."

Dean watched, wincing, as Sam carefully sliced the flesh of his arm with the blade, painstakingly accurate in his execution. Blood trickled from the fresh wound, crimson and fluid.

Sam gave Dean an expectant look, but he still wasn't convinced.

Sam then walked over to a large canteen of water.

"This been blessed, Bobby?" he asked as he pointed at the container.

"Yeah," Bobby replied with a nod of his head, not entirely sure what Sam was about to do.

Sam grabbed some salt and poured it into the canteen. He shook the salted holy water and raised it to his lips, chugging the briny, blessed concoction for a good five seconds.

"Oh, nasty," he said, choking down the last gulp.

Wiping his mouth with the back of sleeve, Sam looked to Dean pleadingly.

"Dean, it's me. I swear."

Dean looked at Sam, shaking his head, unwilling to admit to anything. Without a word, he stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Bobby looked to Sam who watched as Dean stormed out, unable to hide the dejection in his face. Sam looked to Bobby for comfort, but he didn't find any from him.

"Well, that went well."

"Thanks a lot, Bobby," Sam replied cynically, binding the slice on his arm with gauze.

"You remember how you felt when Dean came back from that pit? You can't just spring yourself on him like that."

Sam threw his arms up helplessly, "I'm sorry. Is there a more tactful way to say 'I know you thought I was dead and trapped in hell, but here I am?'"

"Don't you sass me, boy," Bobby barked back.

Suddenly, Dean burst in through the door. Grabbing the gun that Bobby had left by the door, Dean stood before his brother, clutching the weapon in his hands. He eyed Sam suspiciously, remaining unfaltering as he pointed his finger in the face of this man who seemed to be his brother.

"If you are really my brother, answer this question:" Dean cocked the gun in his hands, "what was the first movie we ever saw in a movie theater?"

Sam looked at Dean seriously for a long moment. Dean was poised, ready to fire if this creature claiming to be his brother answered wrong.

Sam answered.

"Back to the Future: Part III. I didn't get it because I hadn't seen the other two."

"What did I think of it?"

"You thought Mary Steenburgen was hot."

Dean stared at Sam. He dropped the gun on the desk. Any hostile thought he had been harboring vanished into thin air. He pulled his younger brother into an embrace.

"Sammy?" he whispered hoarsely.

Sam smiled, patting his brother on the back comfortingly.

Dean pulled away, gripping Sam's shoulders and staring back up his brother's face in disbelief. He seemed invigorated, rejuvenated. He no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"How'd you-?" Dean began, unable to form the words.

"Get out of the box?" Sam finished for him, like no time at all had passed.

"But—," he started, "but that doesn't make any sense. Was it Cas?"

His hands dropped from Sam's shoulders.

"Was it God?"

Sam only shrugged. "I've been trying to figure it out since I got back. All I remember is being in Hell one minute, and then being in that field the next."

"The field?" Dean asked, "What field?"

"The cemetery. In Lawrence," Sam was starting to sense he was in trouble.

"And…you've been hunting?"

"Yeah," answered Sam hesitantly, "with Bobby."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. He shook his head as if to jostle all this new information into some semblance of sense, "How long have you been back?"

Sam sighed, gritting his teeth as he answered, "About six months."

Silence. Then fury.

"Six mon-?-Six MONTHS?" Dean exploded, "You've been back for six months and didn't think once to stop by and say hello?"

He began to pace, rubbing his hands across his face, through his hair, shaking out his arms, rage coursing through his veins.

"Dean, I couldn't just come back!" Sam protested, "As far you were concerned, I was dead. Did you really want to go through this in front of Lisa and Ben?"

"That's no excuse," Dean snapped back, "You want to know what I went through? Thinking you were dead? I had dreams—."

Dean suddenly stopped his ranting and looked to Bobby.

"What dreams?" Sam asked.

"That's why I came here," Dean replied harshly, "You were just the toy in the Happy Meal."

"Dean, I am sorry," Sam insisted, but Dean silenced him with a pointed look.

"I'll deal with you later," he said, adopting his authoritative-older brother tone.

Dean looked back to Bobby.

"What's this about, Dean?" Bobby asked, his focus of concern shifting to the initial purpose of Dean's visit.

Still incensed, it took a moment for Dean to collect himself. The three gathered around Bobby's book burdened desk.

Bobby and Sam looked to Dean, waiting for him to recount his dreams. Dean was reluctant to speak. He looked at them dubiously. He was never one to share feelings, let alone share dreams.

"Well?" Bobby urged; these boys were beginning to try his patience.

Dean looked to them both and shrugged.

"Dean, we can't help you if you don't tell us what has been going on," Sam pressed, genuinely worried.

Dean shot Sam a look, "I know that. It's just . . ."

"What?"

"I'm not comfortable sharing my dreams with you two."

Bobby rolled his eyes, "This isn't an episode of Oprah, Dean. And Sam is right. Tell us what has been happening."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Um…," he began, "I'm kind of reliving my . . . our past," he confessed sheepishly.

He looked at both Sam and Bobby, both clearly confused.

"Well?" Bobby prodded, "Is there more?"

"Well, they are always in places like the cemetery, our house.

"How many dreams have you had?" Sam inquired, as if on a job, "Like, just one or two?"

"Nah, man," Dean said, shaking his head, "At least twenty-five or thirty. It's like I'm reliving our greatest hits or something. But the thing is . . ."

Dean looked at his brother, "Sometimes I thought I saw you, but you were never really there. But there was always a voice."

At this, Sam seemed incredibly interested, "A voice?"

"I thought it was you," Dean said.

Sam pointed to himself, "I've been having the same dreams, dude."


	4. Chapter 3

_In honor of tonight's episode, here is another chapter. We own nothing recognizable. _

Dean cocked his head, "You what?"

"The same dreams. Our greatest hits. But you were never there. And the voice . . . I thought it was you," Sam trailed off.

"It's all the same, Dean," he said.

Dean looked to Bobby.

"Did you know about this?"

Bobby looked the boys from across his desk and shrugged.

"I know a lot of things."

Dean stood up from his chair, kicking it behind him, "Damn it, Bobby. How many other things do you know about that you aren't telling me?"

"Well, I'm not one for gossip, so sorry for not calling you the moment I heard the news that Sam was having funny dreams with a creepy voice."

Sam stood up and walked over to Dean, who stood on the threshold of the kitchen.

"Look, I know we should've told you sooner," Sam began to apologize.

"Yes, Sam, you should've. This isn't just about us. Someone could've gotten hurt. We don't know what has been following us."

"Well, let's consider ourselves lucky that no has gotten hurt yet—."

"You don't know that," Dean interrupted.

Sam ignored him and continued, "And we should just try to figure what has been going on before things get any worse."

"Sam's right," Bobby interjected, "What else about these dreams? This voice you hear, what does it say?"

"Weird stuff like 'I am here' and 'I am coming,'" Sam replied.

"And 'I will not be stopped,'" Dean added.

"Well, that's nice and vague," Bobby said bitterly, pulling books from the stacks on and around his desk and from the shelf behind it.

"Hey, if there was more we would tell you," Dean retorted.

"Doesn't make my job any easier."

"Well, I'm sorry," Dean bit back sarcastically.

"Does this voice know your names?"

Sam and Dean looked to each other and nodded. Bobby flipped through one of the books on his desk.

"Based on that, my guess would be demon, angel, or spirit."

Dean grabbed his beer off a nearby table, taking a hefty swig, "Well, that narrows it down."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help."

All of a sudden, realization flashed across Bobby's face, "But only angels can occupy dreams, right?"

"Demons can, too," Sam pointed out, "Remember Yellow-Eyes. He occupied my dreams."

"Yeah, but playing a game of hide-and-seek in your brain ain't exactly a demon's style," Dean countered, "They're a little more upfront about their threats."

"So, what? An angel, then?" Bobby said, figuring it to be the only conclusion.

"Well, Cas and Anna occupied mine," Dean offered.

"Do you think Cas would know if some rogue angel was messing with our dreams and memories?" Sam asked, intrigued.

"It's worth a shot," Dean admitted.

"Do you still have his number?" Sam asked.

"Whose?"

"Castiel's," Sam replied, as if the answer were obvious.

"Well, no, Sam, unless you think dialing 1-800-HEAVEN would help," Dean placed his hands together, palm to palm, "This is how you get in touch with Cas now."

"Will he show up?"

Dean shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe."

Dean looked at his hands skeptically.

"Y'know, Sam, I'm not really the praying type. Do you want to give it a shot?"

"I'll try but I doubt anyone will listen to me. I've been praying but no one has been answering."

"Why?"

"Well, I was Lucifer's vessel."

"Good point," Dean said, awkwardly placing his hands back together, as if doing so made him uncomfortable. He closed his eyes.

"Cas?" he began, cracking one eye open, then closing it again, "Cas, its Dean. But, I bet you know that. Um, we could really use your help right now. I think there's something after me . . . after us."

Within moments, they heard the sound of fluttering wings and wind from nowhere blew through room.

Castiel stood in the room. Dean hadn't seen him in nearly a year. He hadn't changed much, the same rumpled brown hair, the same trench coat and suit. Only his expression had changed. He seemed infinitely more tired.

"What?"

"Nice to see you, too, Cas," Dean replied, offended by his brusque greeting.

"I've been busy, Dean. What do you want?"

Cas didn't seem fazed by Sam's presence.

"Surprised to see anyone, Cas?" Dean asked.

Cas looked around the room.

"Not really."

Dean glared at Sam.

"Did everyone know about this but me?"

"No, just a select few," Cas replied, "Now, what do you want?"

"We just had a few questions," Sam began to explain.

"About?"

"Dean and I, we've been having . . . we've been having these dreams. We think there is something after us, maybe an angel. Is someone trying to contact us? Do you know any angels that have gone MIA?" Sam asked.

Cas turned to Sam and eyed him critically, "It's possible."

"How possible?" Dean asked, growing tired of Cas's perpetual ambiguity.

"Very possible. Do you know what state Heaven is in right now? Do you know the magnitude of the mess I've had to clean up?"

"Whoa, don't go blaming us. We were just the pawns," Dean said defensively.

"I'm not blaming you. And yes, you were just pawns."

"That aside, do you think an angel could be after us?" Sam said, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Not to harm you. I can't think of any reason for an angel in Heaven to resent either one of you."

"Then why?" Dean quickly rejoined.

"I don't know."

Cas was gone.

"You know, I missed him," Dean said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, what do we do now?" Sam asked, at a loss for answers.

Bobby, who had remained silent for the last few minutes, finally spoke up.

"Well, my suggestion would be: go to sleep."

"This hardly the time for a nap, Bobby," Dean said.

"I don't mean a nap, ya idjit. You say this thing talks to you in your dreams, right?"

"Right?" The boys replied in unison.

"And when do you dream?"

The boys looked sheepishly to the floor. Bobby only rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he said impatiently, as he began to usher them up the stairs.

"Wait, Bobby," Sam protested, "Don't you think it would be safer to try this in the panic room?"

"It might. But it also might mean that whatever has been following you won't be able to get into your heads."

Dean contemplated this for a moment, "That might not be so bad. I could do with a good night's sleep."

Sam rolled his eyes and ascended the stairs, Bobby and Dean close behind.

Bobby led them into his bedroom. Inside stood a king sized bed that looked like it hadn't been slept in for days.

"Um, Bobby," Sam said, eying the solitary bed, "There is one bed in here."

"Yeah?"

"Well, where is Dean supposed to sleep?"

Dean looked at Sam, a mischievous grin on his face, "On the bed, Sammy. Little brother gets the floor."

Sam scoffed and crossed his arms defiantly across his chest.

"Just drop it, you two. Stop acting like girls and go to sleep."

Bobby left the boys in the room. Dean walked in and started to shut the curtains, blocking out the intrusive sun.

"Are you sure we should do this, Dean?" Sam asked cautiously, "Is it safe?"

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes.

"What other choice do we have, Sam?"

Sam, with a helpless look, conceded and moved to the other side of the bed. He kicked off his shoes and swung his legs onto the bed so he was lying next to Dean.

They looked to each other out of the corners of their eyes. With a groan, they both rolled away from the other, facing their respective walls.

They lay in silence for several minutes.

"Dean?" Sam asked tentatively.

"Yeah?

"Are you tired?"

"Yeah."

The sun blared down from above, slowly tracing its way across a cloudless sky. Sam and Dean stood on opposites ends of a bridge of wood and metal framework running over a river.

"SAM?" Dean called out, taking a step onto the wooden planks.

"DEAN?" Sam yelled back.

Quickly, they walked across and met at the center.

"So, what? Now we are sharing dreams?" Dean asked, frustrated.

"I guess. Whatever this thing is, it wants to talk to both of us."

Dean looked around, "Where the hell are we?"

Sam scanned the scene around them. Recognition crossed his face and a smile crept upon his lips.

"What?"

"Dude, I know where we are."

"You wanna share with the class, Sam?"

Sam looked back to Dean, "You really don't know?"

Dean shook his head.

"Jericho? The Woman in White? Any of this ringing a bell?"

Dean gave Sam a blank look.

"Our first case together, Dean, by ourselves. Like six years ago. You came and got me from Stanford," Sam explained.

The same look of recognition dawned on Dean's face. A heavy silence fell upon them. For a moment, they forgot they were even in a dream and suddenly felt the magnitude of this place. All that had happened before and everything else that had happened after.


	5. Chapter 4

_Huzzah! A new chapter! Again, we own nothing recognizable. Reviews appreciated. _

Dean wandered over to the side of the bridge, looking down to the water below.

"I feel like this thing is just mocking us now," Dean said, pounding his fist against the metal railing in aggravation.

"Give it a minute, Dean," Sam said calmly, through he was growing more and more irritated by the minute.

"I don't have a minute, Sam," Dean barked, "I have a life I have to get back to. This thing has been taunting me . . . us for months now and I, for one, have had enough."

"Maybe if we call to it, beckon it somehow," Sam started to conjecture, trying his best to be helpful.

"Oh, yeah, that'll work," Dean murmured sarcastically.

"What did you say?"

"Like doing anything is going to help," Dean spoke louder, more cynically.

"How do you know?" Sam rejoined.

"I tried all kinds of stuff in my dreams in my dreams. I called out to it, chased it, and I never saw its face," Dean said, clearly frustrated, "I mean, I looked for you, and you didn't show."

Sam shook his head, not believing what he just heard, "What?"

"What do you mean, 'What?'?" Dean snapped, "Did you think I didn't look for you or try to find some way to bring you back as soon as I could?"

Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean, you promised—,"

"Yeah, I know what I promised, Sam," Dean looked to his brother's face, his stare seeming to bore into his skull, "I wasn't going to let you go that easy."

"What do you mean?"

Dean got in Sam's face, "I searched in every lore book, every source of goddamned literature I could find, trying to bring you back." Dean breathed heavily, suppressing his own emotions. "And then, I find out you've been back—."

"For six months, Dean," Sam finished for him, "And when I got out, I immediately tried to find you. When I did, you were with Lisa, and Ben, and you were…"

"What?" Dean prodded, annoyed.

"Happy," Sam answered honestly, "You had everything you've always wanted; the girl, a kid, a house, a real job—."

"And you really thought I wouldn't want to see you?"

"I didn't bother you because I thought you finally had everything you wanted," Sam cried desperately.

"Sam, all I wanted was my brother back."

"Dean, that's not fair," Sam argued back.

Dean opened his mouth to retort when he was silenced by a voice whispering in his ear. _The_ voice.

They both turned on their heel, spinning around to face from where the voice seemed to come.

"Did you hear that?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied, his eyes searching for any trace of the mystery speaker.

"What did it say to you?"

"Just one word."

They woke with a start, sitting up in bed. Dean's breath came in and out like gales and Sam rubbed his hands over his eyes and face.

They looked at each other in confusion, shock and a myriad of other emotions.

"Did you hear . . . ?" Dean asked, trailing off.

"I think so. What did you hear?"

"Mattea."

With this word, the house began to quake. The windows panes shook in their frames and the bed rattled against the floor.

Bobby sat at his desk when the tremors began to rumble through the house. Bracing himself against his desk, the disturbance lasted for little more than second or two.

Then, silence.

Until he heard a sharp rap from the front door. He grabbed a pistol from his desk drawer and walked slowly towards the door. He quickly opened it, gun cocked and ready to fire.

What he saw was hardly a threat.

A girl.

A young woman in a purple cardigan.

"Bobby."

It wasn't a question. Bobby was so baffled that he entirely forgot the gun he held in his hand.

"Yes?"

Her face broke into a smile. She was young, appearing to be no more than twenty years old.

"Oh, I can't tell you happy I am to finally meet you," she gushed, "How are your legs?"

"What?"

"May I come in? I'm coming in?"

Her dark, glossy hair that fell to her waist swung heavily against her back as she strode confidently into the house.

"Can I ask who you are?" Bobby managed to ask.

She had shining, dark eyes that smiled even when she wasn't. Her gaze traveled across the room, taking in every little detail.

"I've seen this place so many times; I can't believe I'm finally here," she said with a small sigh, "It's so . . . dirty."

"Excuse me?"

"In a good way," she hurriedly added, "Rustic."

"Who are you?" Bobby asked more forcefully.

"Where are they?" she asked eagerly, turning back to Bobby, completely ignoring his question.

"Who?"

"The boys? Are they up there?" she walked to the foot of the stairs.

She suddenly seemed very serious and turned to Bobby, a solemn expression on her face, "They aren't in the panic room, are they? I can't go down there if they are."

She seemed almost frightened.

"They?"

"Sam and Dean. I assume they are here."

Sam and Dean descended the stairs. Their shoeless footfalls crashed like thunder as they burst into the room.

"Bobby!" Dean called out, "Are you . . . alright?"

Sam and Dean looked at the stranger in the purple cardigan standing next to Bobby, an elated smile on her face.

"Who is this?" Sam asked Bobby, pointing at the girl.

Bobby still held the gun tight, "I was hoping you could tell me."

The girl took a step forward. Sam and Dean took a cautious step back.

"Sam," she said softly, her eyes glowing, she looked like she was about to cry, "Dean."

"Who are you?" Dean asked harshly.

Her gaze was steady, unwavering, and extremely unnerving. It was inhuman and unnatural. It reminded Dean of someone.

"You know who I am, Dean. You both know," she replied earnestly.

"I can promise you, we don't," Sam said, eyeing the case of knives that stood regrettably just out his immediate reach.

The girl's face suddenly fell.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," she said, her voice hauntingly sorrowful.

"Tell us your name," Dean commanded.

She seemed confused by this demand.

"You know my name. You said it. Just now. How else do you think I could be here?"

Sam and Dean looked to each other and then back at the stranger.

"Mattea?"

She smiled, "Yes."

Bobby, holding his gun to fire, spoke, "So you're the one who's been haunting these boys' dreams."

She turned to face Bobby, unshaken by the metal barrel aimed at her chest, "I'll admit it wasn't exactly how I had hoped to introduce myself. I really didn't mean to alarm any of you. But there was no other way. Besides, if anyone would notice something like me in their dreams, it would be these two."

She turned back to Sam and Dean, her eyes gleaming with pride. All Sam and Dean could think about was what exactly "something like her" was.

"And I was right. You guys figured it out."

"Not exactly," Sam said sharply, "We know your name, but we don't know what you are."

She cocked her head slightly and Dean suddenly knew.

"You're an angel."

She nodded, unblinking.

Sam frowned in thought.

"I don't get it. If you're an angel, why didn't you just come to us directly?"

She thought for moment, considering how to best answer, "Circumstances were difficult."

A vague reply. No one knew how to respond.

"It's hard to explain," Mattea concluded. It was clear she had no intention of answering the question.

"Try," Dean pressed bitterly, not knowing what to make of this seemingly innocuous angel. He had met a lot of things that seemed harmless and turned out to be anything but, "You're an angel. That ain't a whole lot go off of. In your crowd, I've met some real dicks."

"I'm not just any angel. I am _your_ angel," she explained. Bobby saw things were about to get personal and he silently excused himself.

"Our angel?" Sam said skeptically.

"Yes, Sam. I am your guardian."


	6. Chapter 5

_That's right, folks. Another chapter. :) _

_We own nothing recognizable. Enjoy.  
_

Dean balked, "I'm sorry. Our guardian? Like, a guardian angel?"

She nodded again.

Sam stifled a laugh, "You're joking."

"Why would I joke about something like that?" she inquired innocently. It was a genuine question.

Sam scoffed suspiciously, "Well, why should we believe you?"

Mattea shrugged helplessly, "I know I really haven't given you any reason to trust me—."

"No, not really," Dean interrupted.

"But I promise you I am only here to help. I am here to protect you," she said gravely.

"Protect us?" Sam countered spitefully.

"Yes," she replied.

Sam took a menacing step forward. Glaring down at her, his voice was like poison, "If you are really our guardian, where the hell have you been?"

Mattea seemed to stop breathing; she was unnaturally still and silent. Mattea looked up into Sam's eyes; she seemed to glower, her expression darkening,

"You think I haven't asked myself that same question for thirty years? You think I don't feel guilty every hour of every day knowing that I allowed you to be put in harm's way?"

She was furious. But not with them. Dean at least could tell that much.

"I don't understand," Dean said, his frustration manifesting itself in his voice. Nothing about her words made any sense. Dean, at that moment, began to wonder what had happened to this angel all these years, why she was so angry, and who with.

"I don't want to say everything that has happened excuses my absence, but it does explain it," she offered, her voice heavy with apology. She was no longer angry, at least, not on the outside.

"Absence? You mean you weren't even around? And then you just show up in some poor girl's meat suit and expect us to welcome you with open arms?" Dean asked harshly.

"This?" she looked down at herself, "No, this is me, not a vessel. Guardians are different. We have our own human form. We come down here more often than other angels. It's just more practical."

"I think you're lying," Sam accused venomously.

"I think you aren't listening to me," she retorted, aggravated by their suspicions, "I mean, in your line of work, I would've figured that you would believe in most things, whether you see them or not. But I guess you guys have always had a problem with that," she looked pointedly at Dean, "Especially you."

"How would you know?" Dean asked.

"It's my job to know," she stated simply.

"What is it that you guardians do exactly? The whole "sit by our bedsides and pray for our souls" gig?" Dean tried to clarify.

"Not exactly."

"Well, then, what?" Sam inquired tersely.

"Think about it, Sam. What are angels? We're warriors, defenders. A guardian is a defender of man. It is our job to make sure that whatever is out there doesn't get to you," Mattea explained, "Each guardian is designated a bloodline to protect. I have been protecting the Winchester bloodline for centuries, right down to you two."

"And you're telling us that for the last thirty years you've just been . . . gone?" Dean asked, indignant.

"I haven't _just_ been gone," Mattea's tone grew markedly more defensive, "Like I said, circumstances were difficult."

"Yeah, you said."

"Look, I know my being here now hardly makes up for my being gone all these years, but I would like to think that it's better late than never," she pleaded apologetically.

"What makes you think we need your help?" Sam interjected bitterly.

"I _don't_ think you need it, but who am I to withhold the help I was created to give?" she asked in reply.

Sam just shook his head contemptuously. He didn't care what this angel had to say.

Dean still wasn't sure what to think.

"Too long now I've been told to back off, to let things be. Well, not anymore. I am done being lied to. I am here and you aren't getting rid of me," she said solemnly. She would not be shaken. Their unreceptive attitude towards her was no deterrent.

"We don't need your help," Sam hissed.

"Well, you have it all the same," she replied forcefully.

"What difference does it make?" Sam yelled, his voice taut with fury, "We've survived without you, haven't we? I think we'll be alright without _your_ help."

He turned away from her.

"Look—," Mattea began as she stepped forward toward Sam.

"Go away!" Sam turned back to her, screaming in her face; he pointed to the door, "We don't need you! So, there's the door!"

Mattea looked hurt, but not broken. She looked over at Dean, whose face was focused on the ground. She glared back at Sam.

"Fine," she said reluctantly, "I'll go. But if you need me—."

"Which we won't," Sam interrupted.

She shot him a scathing look, unimpressed by his lack of maturity, "If you need me, just say my name. I'll be there."

And with that, she disappeared.

Sam was heaving, his anger slowly subsiding. He brushed away the hair that had fallen into his face during his ardent display of emotions. He clenched his jaw and sat down.

Dean looked at his younger disapprovingly, the way he used to look at him whenever Sam would act without thinking.

Sam caught his brother starting at him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't have to look at Dean to sense his disapproval.

"Was that really necessary, Sam?" Dean asked.

"What?"

"Did you have to yell at her like that? She was here all of five minutes and it ends with you screaming in her face," Dean made no effort to mask the reproof in his voice.

"Can you blame me?" Sam cried defensively, "Some angel shows up and tells that she is here to protect us. Well, you know what, Dean, it's just not enough. Not now. Not after all that has happened."

"She didn't even have a chance to explain," Dean rejoined, admittedly feeling sorry for the rebuked angel.

"Why are you defending her, Dean?" Sam asked desperately, "You are a part of this, too. She abandoned us—."

"You don't know that," Dean hurriedly cut in. Sam ignored him.

"She left us both down here to fend for ourselves. We have faced spirits and demons and countless other creatures. We've put our lives in danger every day and she has been gone. She doesn't care about us, Dean. Why can't you see that?" Sam tried to reason with Dean, but his efforts were fruitless.

Dean shrugged, unwilling to concede to his brother's argument, "I don't know, Sammy. Something tells me there is more here than I think we know."

Sam stood up out of his chair and marched to the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the lid off with hiss and headed outside, slamming the door behind him.

Bobby soon re-entered, wholly confused. He looked around and saw that Mattea had gone.

"What the hell happened in here?"

Dean heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes wearily, "I'm not even sure, Bobby."

"Well, can you at least tell me who, or what, she was?"

Dean could only laugh to himself, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Sam followed soon after Bobby. He seemed less tense, less agitated. There was remorse in his eyes. He knew he had disappointed his brother, and that was one thing Sam couldn't live with.

"Sammy here is just dying to be her best friend," Dean said sardonically, glaring at his brother.

"Dean, you remember what happened the last time I blindly trusted some supernatural chick?" Sam countered. It was a fair argument.

The name Ruby flashed through Dean's mind and he couldn't stop the shudder.

"But this is different, Sam. She's not a demon. She is an angel," Dean argued back. He couldn't believe that Mattea really meant them any harm.

"Dean," he began, "The last time I messed around with angels, I wound up in a prison."

Dean saw the hurt behind Sam's eyes. Something happened down there. Something really bad.

He decided that now was not the time to discuss it.

"An angel?" Bobby said in disbelief, "Perfect. Just what we need."

"She seems different, Bobby. I don't know," Dean offered.

"I don't trust her," Sam cut in. Sensing another argument brewing, Dean let it go.

"Alright, alright, fine," Dean got up from the wall and picked up his jacket that he had left by the door, "You know, I kind of hate to admit it but a part of me was hoping for something . . . different."

Bobby shook his head in disbelief, "Like what?"

"I don't know. A djinn?" Dean replied, "Maybe a demon, just something else."

Bobby looked at Dean knowingly, "You wanted to hunt."

Dean shrugged noncommittally, "Maybe."

He looked over at Sam, who seemed to have instantly calmed down as soon as Dean picked up the jacket.

"You leaving?" Sam asked, particularly serene.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "Sam—."

"I know," Sam interrupted. "Lisa and Ben."

"Yeah."

Sam walked over to his brother and embraced Dean in a quick hug before withdrawing. Sam's large hand gripped Dean's shoulder.

"You take care," Sam said.

"You stay in touch," Dean replied, "Or else I will beat you so hard . . ."

"Of course you will," Sam laughed.

Dean turned around to Bobby, "Thanks, man. For everything."

"Anytime," Bobby said with a smile. Or what someone could consider a smile for Bobby.

With a quick wave, Dean was out the door. With one last look at the house, Dean stepped into the Impala and drove off.


	7. Chapter 6

_We own nothing recognizable. :) _

It was early afternoon and Dean knew he had a long drive ahead of him. He wouldn't make it home until late at night, or even the next morning. Falling asleep wasn't an issue for Dean. His mind was brimming, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

Sam was alive. Sam was alive. He wasn't trapped in some pit. He was on earth, living and breathing. And he hadn't said a word to Dean.

He couldn't deny that he was livid. He couldn't believe that Sam could even think that Dean wouldn't want to see him. Yes, he had a happy life with Lisa and Ben, but there had always been something missing.

He had to admit that there was a part of him, even before he knew that Sam was alive, that hoped whatever had been haunting his dreams would be a step towards reclaiming his old life. He wanted to hunt. Though he would never say it out loud, he needed to hunt.

He was somewhat disappointed that this potential hunt only produced Mattea.

Dean could scarcely fathom it. Mattea. Their guardian angel. A girl, barely a woman, in a purple cardigan whose sole purpose was to be a warrior for the Winchester family. He wanted to think of her as an ally, but Sam had a point. The last time they got tangled up with a supernatural girl claiming to be their friend, they ended up bringing about the apocalypse.

But she seemed different. Yeah, Sam gave her crap, but she dished it right back. But not like a demon would. She was never cruel.

Dean had to admit it: he liked her. He felt like she could kick ass and take names, even if her cardigan spoke otherwise.

The sun set as Dean pondered all these things. He was driving in darkness, the only car on the road.

He thought about Mattea and all that she had promised them: her protection, her loyalty, her guarantee to always be there when they called to her.

He had to see it before it would believe it. He was a Doubting Thomas. The biblical reference made him cringe. He gripped the steering wheel. He knew he would regret what he was about to do.

He cleared his throat and looking up to the sky through the windshield, he softly spoke her name.

"Mattea."

He heard the flutter of wings. He looked to his right. Mattea had appeared from nowhere, sitting solemnly in the passenger's seat, staring out the window.

"Hey," Dean said, with a forced smile. She slowly turned her head to look at him. She seemed much more distant than before, in a way, more angelic.

"That was fast," he said, still forcing a cheerful attitude. She didn't have the same perkiness of their first encounter.

"It's my job to be here the minute you need me," she explained bluntly. Dean didn't reply. He simply couldn't muster a reply to such a powerful, direct statement. He could only lightly laugh to himself.

"What is it?" she asked, cocking her head in curiosity.

"I don't know. I guess I'm just not used to angels being there for me," he explained with a sigh.

"Oh," was all Mattea could think to say. She felt consumed with guilt, every word was a harsh reminder that she had let them down.

Dean wasn't blind; he could see the emotions written across her face. It was almost endearing, how she was so unused to her human face, how she didn't know how to hide what she felt.

She suddenly spoke, "Why did you call me, Dean?"

The question took him off guard and Dean struggled for an answer. He felt that telling her he simply wanted to see if calling her would work seemed insensitive.

"Look, Mattea. I want to apologize for what happened earlier today. Sam was rude. I wish I could say why, but he just . . . he's been through a lot," Dean tried apologizing for Sam, though he felt it was rather hollow.

She listened patiently and, with a small smile of gratitude, replied, "I appreciate that, Dean. I really do. But Sam is going to have to apologize to me himself. As much as you'd like to, you can't speak for him. He's just going to have to get used me."

Dean scoffed in disbelief, "Get used to you? I don't believe this."

"It seems to me, Dean, that there is a lot you don't believe," Mattea suddenly seemed more animated, growing frustrated, "I don't know what I am going to have to do to prove to you that I am here for good and for your good."

"Well, maybe if you didn't just show up out of the blue. Maybe if you had . . . I don't know, an angel letter of recommendation or something. If Cas had just told us you were coming—."

"Cas?" Mattea interrupted, her dark eyes wide with fear, "You mean Castiel?"

Dean frowned in confusion, "Yeah. Why? Is something wrong?"

Mattea suddenly seemed very anxious. She bit her lip, worry etched on her brow.

"Whoa, whoa, what is going on?" Dean asked, seeing the usually unshakable angel suddenly deeply agitated.

Sucking in air through her teeth, she began to mutter nervously, "Oh, that isn't good. Oh, that can't be good. He can't know. He really can't know."

"Hey," Dean said abruptly, grabbing Mattea's attention.

"What is going on? Is something wrong?" he pressed urgently.

"Castiel can't know about me, Dean," Mattea confessed, her voice heavy with guilt. She was hiding something.

"What do you mean?" Dean nearly shouted.

"Dean, Castiel doesn't know that I am out," Mattea explained.

"Out? Out of what?"

"Heaven."

"What? You're out past curfew, or something?"

"No. He doesn't know that I got out."

Dean looked at her helplessly. He knew getting involved with this guardian would only bring him more trouble.

"Got out?"

Her eyes focused on the endless road before them. A few seconds of electric silence passed between them before she spoke, her voice taut with dread.

"Dean, I escaped."

_Fin.  
Well, not really. It is here we feel you lovely readers should know that this story is simply the first chapter or "episode" in a series of episodes.  
Mattea will make her return, Sam and Dean will sort out their angst (but don't we love it so!), and a problem will present itself that must be solved.  
Sacrifices will be made, lovers will be reunited (WHAT?), and good times will be had._

_So stay tuned . . . _

_L&M  
_


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